The Burden of Truth
by Dark Aegis
Summary: He always wanted to be invincible. A Jackcentric story with spoilers from both Series 1 of Doctor Who and Torchwood.


**Title:** The Burden of Truth  
**Author:** Gillian Taylor  
**Character/Pairing:** Jack Harkness (with brief cameos from Nine and Ten)  
**Beta:** WMR, Aibhinn & Ponygirl.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers:** Series 1 of both Torchwood and Doctor Who  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own them. They belong to the BBC. I just like playing with them...a lot.  
**Summary:** He always wanted to be invincible.  
**Challenge:** Mannaz: _Meanings: Mankind, society, perfected man, self improvement._ Full prompt at the end of the story.

Written for the June challenge at the LJ community **dwliterotica**.

* * *

**The Burden of Truth  
by Gillian Taylor**

He's sixteen and invincible. With his best friend at his side, he thinks that nothing can stop him, stop them. So he lies, tells a little fib that gets them into the military. Of course they're above the age of consent. Of course they can fight. Even when he's first exposed to the horrors of war, he still believes that they'll survive no matter what.

He doesn't realise that that's a lie as well.

* * *

Something blurs his vision and he brushes it away angrily with the back of his hand, not caring that it's now covered with a mixture of blood and tears. His best friend is dead, broken body sprawled in front of him, open eyes empty and accusing.

They were supposed to be invincible, he tells himself, letting the tears come, not caring that he's surrounded by the enemy, not caring how they laugh and mock him. When only harsh, dry sobs remain, they release him. Perhaps it's to be a lesson for others. Perhaps it's to be a lesson for him, saying that he doesn't matter in greater scheme of this war.

As he trudges through the mud towards his freedom, carrying his friend's body, he curses himself for his youthful fantasies. He got them into this and now James Harper is dead, a heavy weight across his shoulders.

Even after his friend is buried, he still feels that burden.

He suspects he always will.

* * *

It's a shock when he first discovers that the Time Agency isn't all that it purports to be. It's the small things that he notices first, the funds that the other agents secret away, the safety fund that they insist will be necessary before too long. The furtive looks, the conversations that are silenced when certain members of the agency draw near.

It's enough to make him paranoid, but he does his best to dismiss it, to ignore what his instincts are telling him. Then he discovers the big things, the casual toying with time, shifting events so someone stays in power that shouldn't.

To him, time shouldn't be played with. They were supposed to be policing time, not making it happen, not shaping it into whatever image they like.

He brings his concerns to his superiors and they laugh in his face. It's only later, after two years of his life are stolen, that he realises the truth.

He's still that kid, convinced he's invincible.

No longer.

* * *

His latest name rolls off his tongue, a truth and a lie wrapped into one. Jack Harkness was a hero and he fancies himself one too, a vigilante out for justice from the Time Agency.

Maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to choose a name that he gets to keep. It's safer this way, cloaked behind a false name. It makes it that much harder for the Agency to find him again, though there are days he wishes they would. He knows that he's tiny in comparison, barely worth noticing, but he tells himself that some day he'll find a way of getting his memories back.

It's at moments like this he thinks he still feels James' weight across his shoulders. A memory and a condemnation in one. He shifts until the phantom sensation dissipates and focuses on his next target.

The ship's a bit retro, but the Time Agency isn't known for keeping up with the latest fashions and technologies. Maybe this time it'll work. Maybe this time he'll get someone other than the stereotypical Time Agent. Maybe he'll get lucky.

But thanks to all his years of conning others (not to mention himself) he knows that it's not likely.

* * *

He's surrounded by the impossible, he realises, as he spins in a slow circle, taking in this amazing place. The soft hum of the ship vibrates through his muscles, a comfort that he never knew he needed until now. Smiling to himself, the first true smile in years, he stops his movements to lean against one of the struts that line the room.

Jack – when did he start thinking of himself by a name that isn't his? – folds his arms and watches the Doctor. "Who are you?" he asks, the words escaping before he has the chance to censor them.

The Doctor's movements still as he turns, a veritable granite figure clothed in leather. "I'm the Doctor," he says, as though that explains everything.

Perhaps, in a way, it does. Maybe the Doctor is 'the Doctor' like he is 'Jack Harkness'. His name? Or merely a label?

"That's just a name," he replies and there's a flicker of something in the other man's eyes that almost seems to confirm his earlier thoughts.

"What is a name, Captain? A string of letters and sounds that you call yourself? Or is it what you are? Who you are?" The Doctor smiles faintly, a crack in his armour. "I think we both know the answer."

He winces and turns away, suddenly seeing a terrible reflection of himself. Coward is one name. Murderer is another. James Harper's weight rests heavily on his shoulders.

"I'm a Time Lord."

The words are unexpected and he looks at the Doctor in shock. "But they're a myth. A legend."

The Doctor pokes himself. "I'm a bit too solid to be a myth. A legend? Probably. But a myth? Nope, not me."

Suddenly the memories flood his mind. His excitement over the legends, the adventures, of Time Lords and their fantastic time machines. He always thought that they were invincible and now one's standing before him.

But instead of a childhood hero, he sees the truth hidden behind the Doctor's blue eyes. Even a Time Lord is no more invincible than Jack.

* * *

He trails his hand down the familiar contours of the gun, trying to force himself to forget the feel of their lips against his. It was a goodbye, he knows. Even now, the Daleks are coming. He can feel it, deep within his soul, a growing menace.

He's faced them before and survived. But it wasn't by choice.

_"YOU WILL WATCH."_

_"No," he sobbed, trying to look away, trying to avert his eyes. He didn't want to see this, can't see this. James was on the ground, his broken body barely supporting him, one hand out-stretched towards him. "I can't."_

_"THEN WHO IS THE WEAKEST?"_

_"Me," he said, hoping that if he spared James, maybe, just maybe, one of them would get out of this alive._

_"IS THIS BRAVERY?"_

_He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and looked at the Black Dalek. "Go to hell."_

_There was something almost cruel about the Dalek as it swung its weapon to aim at James. "THIS ONE FIRST."_

_He screamed, or maybe it was James, but it was over in an instant. James was dead._

He blinks away the memory, his fingers clenching tightly around the weapon. One last time, he consoles himself. Only, this time, he's taking as many Daleks as possible with him.

"Wish me luck, James," he whispers as he cocks the weapon.

He knows he'll need it.

* * *

It's the sound of the universe being ripped apart. A rising, grating noise that penetrates his body down to his very soul. He starts running, desperately hoping, desperately wishing that the sound is wrong.

It isn't. He watches as the TARDIS fades away and assigns that sound another meaning.

It's the sound of his (impossibly alive) breaking heart.

* * *

Dying isn't so bad, he decides. There's an instant of pain, then darkness. It's the waking up again that's hard. He presses his hands against his chest, feeling for the wound that isn't there. No matter how many times he's done this, no matter how many times he's died and got back up again, each time seems to be worse than before.

Phantom pains rush through his body, the memory of the bullet that took his life – or, at least, tried to – causing his muscles to twinge. He's alone now, just like he's tried to live his life since his first death, but it's a lonely existence. Drifting from place to place, not daring to stay too long, not daring to get too attached. Two decades have passed since the Game Station and the story stays the same.

Sometimes he lives. Sometimes he dies. But, each time, he gets back up again.

This is invincibility.

How he regrets it now.

* * *

The dark-haired man leans onto the table, bracing himself so that he's practically looming over Jack. "Who are you?" the man demands.

"Anyone you'd like me to be," he offers, trying on a warm smile that has no feeling behind it.

The punch stings, but it doesn't cause his smile to fade. "Like it rough, do you?"

Normally, this sort of talk would be scandalous. He gives the man points for not even appearing fazed. "You will answer the question."

"Why should I?" he replies. It's not bravado that makes him answer in this manner, nor is it from any true desire to keep the truth hidden (they wouldn't believe him). Instead, it's exhaustion. He's tired of existence.

Another punch, only this time he tastes the metallic tang of his blood. They're probably going to kill him, he thinks. 1922 is a dangerous time, full of dangerous people. None are more dangerous than Torchwood.

He thinks that the stylised 'T' on the wall behind his interrogator is mocking him. He should probably be concerned, probably be trying to escape, but he's so damned tired.

"Who are you?" the man repeats.

"I don't know any more," he replies, and that is the truth.

* * *

He slides his arms into the greatcoat, feeling as though he's donning his armour. Where the Doctor favoured leather, he favours wool. They both serve the same purpose, he knows. They keep the others, his would-be close confidants, his friends, at bay.

He lets them close, but not too close. There's far too much hurt there, far too much pain. The years might not have aged his body, but his mind is so old now, so uncaring. It's easier to be cold to survive.

That's another type of invincibility.

* * *

He holds Estelle's lifeless body in his arms, feeling his heart break again. He never realised how much she'd healed his soul until now, never realised how much he cared. She's dead and gone, another James Harper, and once again it's his fault.

Why do those he cares about die while he lives on? Why is he this cursed?

It's in that moment, in that aching second between his overwhelming pain and his internalisation of it, that he begins to comprehend the truth.

He's invincible in body only. Inside, he still as vulnerable as any human.

* * *

In the end, when he finds the Doctor again, he looks at the woman that stands at the Time Lord's side and realises what – no, who - he's become. Thousands of accusations, of tears and complaints die before they even reach his throat. In his mind's eye, he sees the flash of blonde hair, a familiar grin, before it fades away again. Death is their only constant companion, he knows.

Despite what happened, despite everything, there's only one thing he can possibly offer. One thing that he realises is the ultimate truth of his existence.

He offers the Doctor his hand and smiles.

"I understand."

It's enough.

**END**

**The Challenge:**

Mannaz.

Meanings: _Mankind, society, perfected man, self improvement._

Interpretation: _This rune represents the relationship of the self with the whole community of mankind (others, family, relations, school, associations). We are all part of each other, made of the same things, subject to similar experiences._


End file.
